


Children of Chaos

by Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun



Category: Runescape
Genre: (Bilrach features for all of thirty seconds), Family, Fantasy Racism, Fighting, Gen, Khazard ain't a nice guy, Khazard narrates the second, Moia narrates the first half, POV First Person, Quest: Children of Mah, Sexism, Sixth Age, Violence, Zamorakians, not sure if it's graphic enough to justify a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 20:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun/pseuds/Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun
Summary: A daughter in spirit, but not in blood; a son in blood, but not in spirit. A father reconciles his children the only way he knows how.(Takes place a few days after Children of Mah.)





	Children of Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> November 2017 note: this may or may not be rewritten or at least heavily edited at some point. This was one of my earliest RS fics, and even in the process of writing this I didn't really think I'd quite got Zamorak's character right.

Zamorak had tasked me with bringing Khazard to join us in Daemonheim; he had given me no reason. I pondered this as I searched. Why Khazard specifically, and why Khazard alone? He was no strategist, and certainly not one for stealth, though Bilrach and myself contributed these talents individually. No, Khazard's strength came in the sheer numbers that he won over to his side. To be a Mahjarrat living in the open, commanding flocks of followers who both feared and loved him, was no small feat in the slightest.

As such, I came to expect that the reason for Khazard's summoning would relate to this ability in particular. This in itself led me to wonder further: were we to launch a full-scale military assault? If so, why had I not been sent to bring Daquarius as well? Surely the Kinshra would be of use in any planned attack. And why such a large operation, when Zamorak preferred subtler action as of late?

No matter which way I approached this, I could not get it to make sense, not with the level of cautious planning that I had come to know from Zamorak. Of course, it makes perfect sense in hindsight. This was no grand scheme, no master plan: it was something far more personal, in a way I could not have foreseen.

Khazard’s location was revealed to me in the thoughts of a drunk and half-sleeping guard: the human remembered seeing Khazard earlier that evening, in the audience for a fight in his Arena. Those memories buzzed with a cruel excitement: the glee of seeing weak skulls crushed, of brutally proving dominance time and time again. Typical of the sort of follower Khazard attracted. Typical of Khazard himself, as well, but I could not let my distaste obstruct my mission. I forced my mind to turn away from that subject, busying myself instead with equipping the guard's Khazard armour as a disguise.

Once done, I cast the guard's body aside. Khazard would not miss one individual soldier. From there, I continued to the arena.

In the shadow of a building, I crept closer to the large enclosure, but stealth was largely unnecessary: the sun had long since set, and all eyes were on the battle being carried out by torchlight. A human in Khazard armour battled a tree gnome in tattered clothes. She was a surprisingly good defender, with her size allowing her to dodge with ease, but her tiny sword clattered uselessly off the human's platelegs whenever she attempted to attack. Yet clearly she was the more quick-witted of the two: the human lunged forward to attack, so she ducked through the gap between his legs, grabbed his foot with her free hand, tried to yank it out from under him—

No good. No budging. Her strength was nothing against his size. In the torchlight, the soldier's grin cast grotesque shadows across his face: he brought his other foot onto her belly and pinned her to the ground, pressing down just enough to be painful.

He looked to the spectators, and there I saw Khazard, surrounded by a rowdy crowd. Most were young men wearing armour branded with Khazard's skull; many were drunk, with bottles of Khali brew both in their hands and scattered smashed on the floor. Some had women with them, dressed in civilian clothes: a few cheered as loudly or even louder than the men, but others looked on with fear or disgust. All of those women were accompanied by men, some of which held onto them a little too tight.

And all of them gravitated to the Mahjarrat at their centre, his face in its fleshless, ghoulish state. He thrived on the energy of those around him, living on their loyalty. All looked to him to decide the fate of the helpless gnome, even though his judgement was inevitable: he extended a hand, fingers in a fist, thumb pointing down.

The tree gnome died with a burst of blood. I flinched; I noticed a few spectators did too, men and women, soldiers and civilians. But all doubt was drowned out by the vicious cheers that followed, and not a single person watching failed to join in the revelry.  


Eventually, Khazard stood and announced the end of the night's festivities; the crowd dispersed at his command. I slumped against a wall in the shadows, hoping to be mistaken as a drunken guard. It worked: no one cared to pay me attention as they made their way out. All the while, I kept an eye on Khazard from underneath my stolen helm: he was leaning against the fence of the enclosure, surveying the bloodstained devastation of the day. Golden torchlight flickering on fresh blood, the arena appeared aflame.  


Being seen to summon Khazard by such a large group would spread gossip and rumour, something I would much rather do without. I waited until everyone was gone before I approached him, joining him in leaning against the railing. 

"Khazard.”

He did not look at me, but recognised my voice, and snorted. "Half-breed. What are you doing here?"

"Zamorak has called for your presence in Daemonheim." Our lord's name caused a notable change in his demeanour; now he looked at me, appearing contemplative in a way I had not thought him capable. 

I continued: "If you will, I will teleport you there."

"Of course..." He turned away from his arena and shifted his face into its fleshed form. This surprised me: did he wish to look more presentable? I had not thought he cared. To appear more powerful, perhaps? Plausible. I supposed someone as young as him would have to make an effort to distinguish himself.

I cast my spell, and in an instant: Daemonheim, on the dungeon's deepest floor. Our lord Zamorak stood before us. With the loss of his wings a few days prior, he struck a smaller silhouette than I was used to. His red-spined back was somewhat hunched, his gaze less constant and unyielding than usual. I knew not why.

My mentor Bilrach stayed to one side, observing as ever, loath to intervene as it would interrupt his own thoughts.

Our lord spoke. "Excellent, Moia. We have much to discuss." He turned to his right hand man: "Bilrach, I would have you absent for this." 

Bilrach gave him a quizzical look, but seemed to come to an understanding and nodded: "Hmmm, yes, at once, Master." And he scurried away to places unknown.

With Bilrach gone, I expected to be asked to leave as well, but no: "Moia, stay."

"My lord?"

"We must discuss... the three of us." He lacked the decisiveness that usually filled his speech. I thought I even detected a tremble, a slight stumble in what he said.  


Only once had I seen my lord like this before: it was in the direct aftermath of the Battle of Lumbridge, when Saradomin's onslaught had nearly killed him and only I had been the difference between life and death. He had been vulnerable, in pain, and truly grateful for my help; it had been my honour to help him recover his strength, in repayment for how he helped me find mine. But for a god usually brimming with confidence and conviction, seeing him so shaken had unnerved me.

Before Khazard and myself, he seemed the same way. It worried me.

At first, there was silence; I sensed Zamorak was collecting what he had to say. I was expecting Khazard to launch into some sort of bluster (he was never the type for simply following orders), but he was uncharacteristically controlled. Was there something that had occurred between the two, perhaps during the ritual on Freneskae of which Bilrach and my lord had told me, something to which I had not been privy?

"Khazard..." Zamorak began, with another pause before he could finish: "My son."

It took me a moment to realise the magnitude of his words.

I saw Zamorak look at me, acknowledging my reaction. Then he turned his gaze back to Khazard, and continued: "We are children of Mah, and as such, it is right that we are united. But you... you are my child, and that means we should be closer still. 

"Khazard, you have become a leader of men, with a loyal army in your service. You break people free from order and stagnation, for which I commend you. It reminds me of my own time as a general, gathering those who wished for a better life and leading them against a Lord who would suppress us. In that sense, you are truly my son." He paused again, his horned head dipping in the crimson light. "And yet there are aspects of your life that I simply cannot condone. Tell me, Khazard: when was the last time you had a fair fight?"

Khazard was taken aback by this, struck speechless.

His father continued: "I know about your Fight Arena: you send the weak to fight the strong in a fight they cannot possibly win, to be killed for your own entertainment. This is a cruel, senseless waste, in direct opposition to my philosophy. An equal conflict teaches both sides; an unequal one teaches no one."

He looked at the two of us in turn, and I realised exactly what he meant to do about this: "Khazard, I want you to prove yourself. Fight Moia, and show me your true capability."

I looked over the Mahjarrat now facing me. He was scowling. Anger, good, more prone to mistakes. He'd drawn his sword: a melee fighter, which in itself rendered him susceptible to my magic. I still wore his troops' armour; it would hinder me somewhat, though it was of such poor quality that this would barely matter. Was Khazard relatively inexperienced, perhaps? The youngest of the Mahjarrat, barring myself. I presumed he was too young to have fought seriously in the God Wars, then too busy commanding an army (and picking on the weak) to have experienced much single combat. I suspected I had far more of a chance against him than against any others of our kind. Besides, if the World Guardian had beaten him— 

Khazard lunged. I dodged with ease, but his point was clear: time for the fight to begin.

* * *

Zamorak had insulted me by calling this girl my equal! A half-breed! Human sludge in her veins, her flesh soft and without any shine... how easily it would yield to my sword. So pathetic in her fragility, it would be harder to avoid killing her than it would be to strike her down. I should have run her through that instant.

She was looking at me, thinking in her undeserved arrogance that she could win this. Time to prove the wretch wrong.

I thrust my sword forward, but the coward stepped aside instead of dying. Worthless scum. Then a blast of magic, ugh! She was casting fire at me, and the heat scorched through my armour. I used it to fuel my rage, slashing at her all the harder, but she kept avoiding my attacks. She would travel in bursts of speed, appearing several feet away from where my sword should have brought her end. Shameless!  


"Stay where you are, weakling!" I snarled at her.

Instead, she hit me with a fire spell of even greater intensity. I seethed as the flames wracked my form. How was this a fair fight when she refused to play fair?

Was that disapproval my father looked at me with? It baffled me! As much as it made sense that I was the son of a god, moments like this made me feel I was the more worthy of godhood.

Her flames simmered down once again, and I decided I had to match her silly  tricks. I grew to twice my size, something the half-breed couldn't match, and took to trying to kick her down instead. Still she ducked and bobbed around, but surely she couldn't last forever against a full Mahjarrat!

I couldn't move. The mongrel had cast a binding spell. I could do nothing but curse at her under my breath; she wracked my body with fire spells, the pain shooting through me. I shook myself free of her petty stunt at last, and went at her once more, my rage only renewed.

And yet the creature insisted on being even more annoying. I found myself dazed by her next spell, lagging seconds behind her, trying to slam her into the wall but only ever kicking where she had just been. I nearly tripped over, for shame! And all the while she kept zipping around me, some kind of irritating insect. Why couldn't I just swat her like a fly?

I had to beat her at this foolish game, I had to think ahead! I tried to guess where she would be next, and stuck out a foot there to catch her... it worked! Her powerless human body struck against my boot and fell to the floor.

I stepped over her form to finish her, but in that time she had got to her feet and got behind me once again. So close! Curse that filth-blooded fool!

Enough of this. I pre-empted her attacks with my sword instead, hoping she might slice herself in two. And yet the girl predicted even that. She was never where I expected, and always had another spell in store to punish me for my failure. My stamina was running low, and yet she ran as fast as ever...

I could not yield. I could not!

Yet my attacks were ever slower, and the girl kept up her churlish assaults, and eventually I dropped my sword and fell to my knees, my vision swimming. I reverted to my normal size to keep myself from wasting my energy.

The half-breed stood above me. She had won... how had she won...? How could I have let such a crime against nature beat me, outwit me in everything I had tried?

I felt my father's eyes upon me, and I bowed my head in shame.

Perhaps I had gone soft.

Zamorak spoke: "My son. You have endless potential, but you must achieve it. You have to learn." I dared not look at him. “You may challenge Moia again any time you wish, when you think that you might best her. Until then, train yourself. And do not be satisfied with easy pickings. Greatness does not come through complacency."

I picked myself up from the glowing red ground. Moia had taken my sword, and was passing its handle back to me; I snatched it.

Bilrach had returned to the room at some point; I could feel his deep-set eyes watching me from the scarlet shadows. I rarely encountered him, except during Rituals; that incorrigible man would always watch and study and scheme. He never had the force to carry that forth into any kind of strong action. And yet if even Moia had beaten me, perhaps this ferret of a Mahjarrat could too. 

Even with the rituals gone, I was vulnerable. I could not let this be.

I realised that everyone was watching me. Bilrach, Moia, Zamorak. Waiting for some kind of response, I assumed. Ugh. What more was expected of me? I'd already been beaten into the ground, did I have to humiliate myself further by talking about it?

Fine.

"Yes, father. I will fight. I won't let myself be weak. I will make sure I am unbeatable." It was truth, at least. And speaking it made it more certain.

There was a look on my father's face. I think it was pride.


End file.
